Warning
by MonsterBrat
Summary: AU. Somewhere in a galaxy far far away, Vicious takes the steps to his apartment two at a time. Yaoi, but no sex.


**Summary:** Somewhere in a galaxy far far away, Vicious takes the steps to his apartment two at a time.

**Warning**

Vicious takes the steps to his apartment two at a time. The elevator is broken and he is going to murder the landlord for it later. It's been that kind of goddamned week. He hears the sound of two shots fired, echoing down the concrete stairway, and runs faster. One more shot, final-sounding, and he's leaping for the next floor, grabbing the railings, dragging himself up. It's a little faster this way, he likes to think. His arms ache.

His apartment's hallway is bland and comfortless. The carpet is washed out and the paint is old. It's nothing to him, but the carpet is bald, it doesn't give a good grip to his patent leather shoes. He runs to the fifteenth door and grabs for his sword as he skids to a stop. It is the first thing to enter through the wide-open doorway. It stops two centimetres from a familiar throat.

Gren stares at him in shock behind the barrel of a gun. He holds it much more competently than he once did, but still, it looks alien in his hands. His eyes are wide and his hands look to be pressing the trigger in automatic surprise.

On his perch in the living room, Crest caws in unnecessary warning, expanding his wings to gain Vicious' attention. Damned bird did nothing when it counted, he's sure.

"Vicious!" Gren says, surprised and agitated, and drops the gun, raising his hands in a useless warding, long fingers spread wide. It falls onto the chest of a man lying in the entryway. The man is middle-aged, dead with a bullet hole messily splayed on his chest.

Vicious ignores him, quickly glances through the apartment. Aside from two corpses at the door there are no changes from two days ago, when he'd last been here. Gren's saxophone case is standing neatly near the door. His coat is tossed in a heap on the floor behind him. He has a concert, Vicious thinks. He has a concert that starts at seven and it is already six twenty five in the evening. Soon he will be late. Some days ago Julia had asked him to please try to attend. Gren did not ask, but as always he would have left a ticket on the kitchen counter.

"Are you alright?" Gren asks, stepping back and snatching the gun up again with a flinching, calculated shyness. Putting the safety on. "That one's alive." He says, indicating the other corpse. This one has a bullet hole in the lower stomach and another in his leg. He is staring between the two of them wildly, silently.

"I see." Vicious says. "Are you injured?" He asks. He does not see any injury, only the fresh spray of blood across Gren's shirt that makes the whiteness of it just that much more appealing. The little, half-worried smile across his face makes Vicious want to hurt him and then get that goddamned blood off of him.

"No. Just surprised me, is all." Gren says.

"Go change."

Gren looks at him as if he were saying something strange and unfamiliar. "Your shirt is dirty." Vicious says. "Go change."

Gren raises an eyebrow but walks back into the bedroom to change his shirt. The gun is swinging casually from one long finger, his little victory prize. Vicious looks down at the dead man at his feet, and the other one keeping a terrified silence. Neither of them have weapons—there is a gun lying on the floor by the living room carpet. The other has presumably disappeared with Gren into the bedroom. He picks up Gren's coat from the floor, finds no blood on it. He shakes the wrinkles out and sets it and the saxophone case away near the couch. Crest caws in question and he waves it away vaguely, letting the bird go back to cleaning his feathers. He returns and the sword in his hand cuts a thin line across the living man's neck. The crisp sound of his shoes against the wooden floor pleases him.

"So." He says, considering. His hands flex against the sword hilt in anticipation.

Gren comes back, now dressed in his best again. Dark socks which make almost no noise, ghosting through the apartment. He doesn't like the sound this floor makes. His shoes are safe from blood, out of the way.

"You're late." Vicious says, and points to his things standing off to the side with his sword.

"I can cancel. It's not that important. Do you need any help?" Gren says. He skirts around the invisible parameter Vicious has set for himself, but he is still hovering.

"No. Yes. Tell Spike downstairs everything's fine. Tell him not to let anyone strange up here. And shut the door behind you." Vicious goes back to eyeing the dying man before him, idly pricking his neck, his face.

"Sure." Gren dresses, picks up his case. He lingers in the doorway unnecessarily. "Are you alright, Vicious?" He asks again, very gently. Vicious has come to recognize that he's picked up this strange idea from Julia (he can't imagine where else such nonsense might have come from), that Vicious needs gentleness of all things. He does not like this. Best of all is the Gren who follows him without comment, who does not believe that Vicious is petty enough to need comfort of any sort.

"Leave." Vicious says.

The door closes quietly behind him. The apartment is Vicious' now. The man on the floor starts to sob in recognition. He starts saying stupid lies like _I didn't know_ and _I didn't do anything_. He asks for forgiveness for various crimes Vicious is not concerned with.

He leans back against the door, sword poised against the man's throat. It cuts very gently into the crook of neck and jaw.

"Who do you work for?" he asks, already knowing.

"White Tigers, Tryball Lee. On man, oh god, it's just a job, only a part-time job, I'm paying for _college_…" There is more but it is not useful information.

"What information did they give you?"

"This place, _Vicious_, said you got a sword, you got… oh fuck," the sword in question digs in deep, "you got a roommate…a partner—Spike…"

It is ludicrous to believe that anyone who knew where he lived would send a couple of thugs to get him. The man has no better answers. Vicious supposes this might be a means of scaring him. Perhaps they were targeting Gren, but if so Lee was lacking in information. Gren had always been pretty much a moving target, but even he is capable of grabbing someone's gun and shooting them at point-blank range. And they picked a time when Vicious would be returning home momentarily, as opposed to the many days of his absences, although that might have been deliberate. Let him hear the shots as they were fired, just as he entered the door. No one would call to complain of the smell and have the body removed before he'd had a chance to see it.

"Time?"

"Wha—no, not time, didn't give a time—" the sword makes lazy circles around the bullet hole in his stomach. "Oh holy fuck please don't kill me. I didn't _know_."

Vicious finds this defence just funny enough. "That you were going to kill me?"

The man can string in no rebuttal however. He is a wretched heap of flesh. He howls how he has family, a wife and daughters, he is paying for college. Vicious drags the sword up, just enough to really hurt.

"Any other information."

The man tells him about a job he was supposed to be on. He says things about Spike having good aim. He says he had been given a photograph. It is in the dead man's pocket. Old, from Titan even, the only place Vicious had ever been successfully captured on film. On Mars he had never let his guard down enough but at some point he'd been caught, watching a smear of dirt across Gren's nose wrinkle into a smile, and a camera had snapped. Vicious did not notice. He was barely in it, in the background.

Such was Titan. Out there, far removed from his loyalty and his work and his ambition other things had made themselves at home in his head that had no place there.

It is not a good picture. His face is tiny and unrecognisable. Only his hair is really there, behind Gren's smile, which looks tired and hurt around the edges. He had never thought so on Titan, but compared to that time, Gren practically glows these days. He puts it away into his pocket for later investigation.

The man continues to babble but he has nothing more to say except _please_ and other stupid things, things about his family. His family needs a father, they need money.

Vicious does not care or understand about family.

He cares about himself, his aching arms from dragging himself up stairs a flight at a time. The fact that he'd had to race back here on some half-reliable tip, narrowly avoiding catastrophic accidents on the freeway, shoving Spike's head nearly out a window to keep him quiet. He cares about the hours of sleep he missed trying to get here early. The blood he will have to clean off the floor.

He has missed the concert by now. There will be others, most of which he has not and will not attend. The ticket on the kitchen counter is tentative and in a sorry state. It has been crammed into Gren's pockets, along with spare bits and keys and his music player.

He kills the man finally, and begins to clean up. When there's no more blood and the bodies have been disposed of and Spike has been appraised of the situation he moves on to feeding Crest. Gren has obviously done the shopping, the fridge is well-stocked. There is a note for Vicious about the pancakes hidden inside, of which he takes advantage, like a peasant, eating at the coffee table. He takes in the lumpy misshapen quality of them, the sickening sweetness of the syrup. His favourite tea tastes disgusting afterwards. This taste will linger with him for a long time.

This apartment is relatively new. He had moved a few weeks after returning from Titan. His old place was really somewhere between Julia's place and Spike's place. When he returned those spaces had shrunk and so he found his own apartment. It was not expensive or in a good part of town, and Vicious did not need these things. After Titan especially he had discovered an enjoyment of the frugal life. Things did not seem real if he was too comfortable.

Gren had shown up one day two weeks after he signed the lease, at the Red Dragon headquarters for a drug exchange. Somehow he found Vicious' phone number. Vicious bought the drugs, though they were of little interest to him. They made him some money though, and paid for dinner and a bottle of whiskey.

Gren didn't mind the crummy apartment or its location. His possessions were more or less what he'd owned on Titan, with the addition of his saxophone and a whole lot of photographs and a couple of boxes of junk. Eventually he'd found a second-hand piano that sat in a corner of the living room. Vicious had replaced that with a first-rate piano that he polished once a month. It shone, but without Gren's methodical upkeep of the keys it would likely not have played. It was the most expensive and best-kept part of the place, aside from Vicious' sword and the bird's perch.

Vicious had not given out the address to his first apartment, but then it was either Julia's, who gave her address as she wished, or his and Spike's. Spike's apartment was arranged by their mentor, and the address was well-known. The address of Vicious' new apartment was a methodically kept secret that Gren regularly spilled. It did not matter—aside from that first drug case Gren kept company with school friends and conservatory friends and the occasional family member. Mostly they were respectable people. Some sent expensive Christmas presents. Gren told them that he had a roommate who was a bounty-hunter.

Once Vicious had picked up the phone to hear Gren's sister on the other line. He had seen a photograph of her. He knew her to be a university student on the other side of the planet, too cheap to have a vidscreen. "Have you caught anyone famous?" She'd asked, laughing. "Has Gren killed anyone with his awful jazz yet?" It was like talking to the television.

Gren appeared to be able to find the worst parts of Mars and then lose them completely as he wished.

To Vicious the worst parts of Mars clung like cobwebs and silk chains. Some of his associates knew that he shared his apartment with a man, and several aside from Julia and Spike and the twins knew the man's name. Most either did not care or were made not to care. Vicious did not allow them to speak to Gren. If they ignored a warning they were generally disposed of. Except for Julia who paid him no attention and Spike who plain did it because Vicious said otherwise and Lin and Shin who took advantage of Gren's ability to procure free tickets to what Vicious was told were excellent entertainment venues. Apparently women loved syndicate men a lot more when they had good plans for the evening.

No one else bothered Vicious when he went home. The syndicate had learned the hard way not to have him followed, and by necessity he'd gained enough ground that no one was around to order further attempts.

Except now, apparently, there was Tryball Lee and the two thugs he'd sent who had almost murdered Gren for Vicious' sake.

Finished cleaning, Vicious sat down to polish his blade and make phone calls and read the paper. Crest came to sit on his shoulder and idly peck at his head. Likely he'd been lonely, Gren was shy of the talons and the beak. His nervousness made the bird shun him.

Quite late into the night Gren returned, jacket askew, tie inelegant, looking a little drunk. He was not, really, but playing all night appeared to give him a glow akin to alcohol.

"Good evening!" Gren said, grinning. He removed the tie, put his case down, hung his coat. He appeared to be in good spirits. He glanced around curiously, lifted his feet to see if the pools of blood were all gone, skated around in his socks. His coat jingled with his keys. He had a flower tucked into its` buttonhole, a red carnation. A small bundle of them was cradled gently in his arms.

He went into the kitchen and Vicious could hear water, the tinkle of glass, the too-rough chopping sound of Gren butchering flowers to fit into drinking glasses. He`d scatter them everywhere, wherever there was space, and Crest would shred them as they slowly rotted.

Gren said, as usual, "We need a vase. Or something."

Vicious said nothing in response. Julia had brought a vase once, and Gren had accidentally smashed it. He was becoming convinced that Gren just liked to cut up flowers.

"Good concert?" Vicious asked because he had always asked. Julia had asked this once and he had remembered it.

"Good enough. Julia was there. She said she liked it but not the solo—it was done by a conservatory student (because of family connections I guess). He butchered it, it was hilarious. He got this embarrassingly large bouquet, could barely lift it..." Gren returned, set a cup of flowers here, another there. Removed a bottle of wine from where it had sat in the shadow of his case. He handed it over.

"Glasses?" While Vicious examined the bottle, finding it satisfactory.

Gren went to fetch some. He came back and poured them both a good sized measure, then settled on the couch. Vicious drank his quickly. He registered the taste only after the second glass. Gren finished his first glass and was satisfied.

"Did the man tell you what you wanted to know?" Gren asked. One hand had wandered into the crook of Vicious' arm, the other was playing with his empty glass, reaching for an abused carnation sitting in a teacup on the coffee table. It wasn't dead enough for him. His head was gravitating to Vicious' shoulder. He was still smiling, appeared perfectly content. After Titan (on Titan Gren had been too strung out to get upset at anything) he had learned that when Gren was upset, which was rarely, it was very obvious. He sulked and was contrary and in general made no effort to hide his bad mood. He was also quite easy to console, according to Julia. Vicious did not believe it – to him Gren had two modes, happy and impossible.

"Yes. I will take care of it." He said. "I will be gone for some time." He added, to alleviate the feeling that he was apologizing or explaining himself. He would be gone for however long he wished, and Gren would no more question this than he questioned why Vicious was so damnably unable to ever make it to even one of his concerts.

If he was ever upset by these things Gren did not show it. The things that upset him tended to be when Vicious would speak cruelly, or hit him, or some other extreme measures. These were not hard to avoid, especially when Vicious had so many other people on whom to exercise such behaviour. Anyone else was more satisfying than Gren, who only looked hurt and made life difficult.

They drank the bottle away, and Gren smiled, curled up into the couch, leaning into Vicious' shoulder and grasping for his arm like a child. The kiss Vicious received was not childish, but it was sweet with wine. The scent of Gren's skin, his hair, the way he held Vicious' arm were also sweet. In general tonight there was something in him that Vicious felt one might well drown in. He did not wish to drown, but he was hardly going to be forced off his own couch. He settled for sitting very closely together in the gloom of the apartment, feeling breath against his neck, his cheek, his ribcage where Gren's body pressed to him. Very much alive, quite happy, drunk on music and wine.

He felt himself contented to stay like this for a long time, thinking nothing, feeling only the mundane feel of a body, a known voice very gently telling him about how Gren's days were spent. He had played here and there. He had gone out for drinks with his college friends, and taken Julia dancing. He had written a song he wanted Vicious to hear. He talked incessantly, but it filled the silence Vicious was permanently wired to, and it made the feel of his breath swell and sink like the tides of the viscous sands of Titan. It seemed to Vicious that a long time ago he had thought that Gren's unremitting chatter was perfect for obscuring the chatter of guns. Now he'd just gotten used to it, the apartment felt strange and purposeless without it.

When Gren was here the apartment seemed poised for movement, constantly changing. One day the old fridge would be replaced with a new one. The stove next. A heater appeared with little squeaky wheels, and then the wheels became quiet. It followed them into bedrooms and hid next to the couch. A stand for the saxophone gleamed like some strange animal in a dark corner, poised to strike. Papers would scatter and coalesce into folders. A carpet slithered in, an ugly bald one, then a thick one that his feet disappeared into, a hazard. Lying on this carpet, his overcoat covering him, he felt like a soldier, tucked into his tent, with the heater-winds blowing nearby and Gren hiding in his syndicate coat instead of a sleeping bag. Instead of fatigue and stress his head would swim with alcohol, with the undistinguished smell of Gren's shampoo.

Things that Vicious never noticed took on strange new lives while he wasn't looking.

When Gren was absent little things tended to go wrong with the place that infuriated Vicious. The fridge would be too shiny and clean of notes. The food would be bland and predicted. The bed would be too meticulously made, his cloths hung too far apart, as if to fill gaps. The curtains would be open too late or closed too early. And everything would be quiet, well-ordered, unnecessary.

And anyway, Gren stopped talking when he felt he did not need to speak. Vicious only had to provide a compelling reason. Tonight he did not.

If Vicious asked Gren would play all night. He sometimes did whether Vicious asked or not. Vicious had learned remarkably easily to fall asleep to the strange sound of a live musical instrument. Gren would peck at the piano, sometimes a known piece, but often it was something to write down and worry at and change over time. Afterwards the apartment would be strewn with the coded messages of musical notes Vicious could not read. Occasionally he would play the piano as if he were expecting someone to pick up the saxophone lying nearby. Rarer were the times that he played the saxophone to the ghostly accompaniment of the silent piano. At those moments Vicious felt that the apartment needed someone else who could produce music.

He did not really need to go to concerts. The acoustics here were good enough for him.

**END**

**A/N: **Why yes I am a hopeless romantic... why do you ask...?

Please review! I feel like this is wildly OOC... :(


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